A Damn Good Coat
by Falling April
Summary: [PostRENT: MarkCollins] It's hard to let go when you lose the person who knew you best. [Oneshot]


_I can't be here, this can't be happening, not after everything... he's gonna be fine. He's going to come out of it this time, just like he always has, he's going to be home by the end of the week, the doctors are stupid, they don't see how strong he is. He's going to make it. He is. He has to make it, he--_

"Mark? Mark, honey, are you okay?" Mark dragged himself out of his thoughts and blinked wearily up at Maureen, who was hovering worriedly in the doorway of the hospital room. Mark sat up, gently slipping his hand out of the one he'd been grasping, and ran a hand through his hair, trying to smile.

"Yeah, just tired." he stifled a yawn. Maureen sighed and pursed her lips.

"Go home and sleep, Mark." she said gently. "He'll be fine, and I promise I'll call you if anything changes." Mark chewed his lip and frowned at the sleeping man in the hospital bed for a moment. "_Go_, Mark." Maureen insisted.

"I... Okay." Mark agreed reluctantly. He got up slowly, his limbs stiff from the plastic chair he'd been sitting in for the past 16 hours and 27 minutes. Maureen grabbed his hand briefly as he walked by and squeezed it comfortingly, then went to sit in the seat he had just vacated. Mark's eyes lingered on the man in the hospital bed, recalling every line, every crease of his face, his hands, his—

"Mark." Maureen's voice stopped him and he nodded, turning and moving slowly into the hallway. The walk from the door of the hospital room to the door of his apartment was torturously slow, despite it being no more than ten blocks. He would move slowly, lost in thought, remembering how they'd had dinner at that deli last month, and how they'd kissed in the rain in that corner of the park. Then it would hit him that if something happened while he was walking, he had no way of knowing, and he'd speed up, almost running, until he'd forced himself to calm down and slow down.

It didn't take long to reach the apartment, let himself in, and lean against the door wearily after he closed it behind him. He took a moment to close his eyes, compose himself for the people that weren't there watching him, before he moved further in, pressing the play button on the answering machine as he passed it.

"_Mark? Honey, are you there? It's Mom."_ Mark sighed, taking off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. "_Roger called us this morning and told us what was going on. We just wanted to let you know that we're praying for both of you. Give us a call as soon as you can. I love you."_ A loud beep sounded before the next message started. Mark hugged himself and stood in front of the answering machine, watching it and hoping it didn't have a message from Maureen.

"_Hey, man, it's Benny."_ The older man's voice sounded tired and strained. "_I'm stuck in the airport in Dallas… I won't be able to get back until sometime tomorrow morning, earliest. Just… aw, shit, you probably won't be there to get this message, but if you do, you tell him to hold on, okay? He ain't getting away from me that easy."_ Mark laughed shortly, not allowing the laugh to become a sob. "_I'll see you in a few hours."_ There was a long pause, and Mark could hear the sounds of an airport employee paging someone over the intercom. "_Just hold on, okay? We're here for you. Love you, man."_ The machine beeped again. Mark held his breath as he waited for the next message to play, telling him he needed to be back at the hospital _now_, that he might be too late…

Nothing. No more messages. Mark remembered to breathe again and collapsed onto the couch, wrapping his arms around his legs and hugging his knees to his chest. The apartment was so empty without Tom's laugh and presence, and it was compounded by the knowledge that those things would probably never fill the apartment again. Mark bit back tears at the thought – he wouldn't be able to stay here, in this place that had been their home since they'd moved out of the Loft, not without Tom. A few homey touches could be found here and there – the price they had paid for letting Maureen help them move in. There were a handful of picture frames scattered around, with pictures of the group, one shot of Tom, Benny, and April, looking like the siblings they were (even if Tom had different parents), one shot of Maureen and Roger's wedding, and numerous pictures of the big black anarchist and the scrawny Jewish filmmaker with their arms around each other, happy as clams, finally together after years of skirting the issue.

Mark had asked Tom, once, about Angel and soulmates and where Mark himself stood in the scheme of things. "Relationships like the one I had with Angel are almost unheard of." He'd said slowly. "I think that we were meant for each other in a way that was deeper than most people ever get. If the reincarnation theory is true, I'd have to say that Angel and I are just destined to find each other, life after life."

"What about me?" Mark had asked, his tone teasing but the question earnest. Tom had smiled and kissed his cheek, tightening his hold on the smaller man.

"You're the kind of true love that comes once and only once, reincarnation or not. And that's just as special."

Mark sighed and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead to rub his eyes. It had been weeks since he'd slept well, worried out of his mind by every sneeze, every cough. Tom had been sick, true, but he'd begged Mark to not take him to the hospital until it was absolutely necessary, and Mark had honored that. At the least, it gave them more time together and alone, precious and priceless as they felt the end catch up to them.

And then last week Tom had coughed up blood and Mark put his foot down, bundling the anarchist into his leather jacket and half-carrying him to the hospital. He'd kept deteriorating, but he'd had a smile for Mark every time their eyes met. Then, 17 hours ago, he'd fallen asleep, and they hadn't been able to wake him up.

The doctors called it a coma. They said the likelihood of him waking up was slim. Mark didn't care what they called it or what the likelihood was that he'd come out of it - he planted himself in that damn orange plastic chair and hadn't budged until Maureen had made him leave. She was right, really, he was so fucking _tired_. Maybe he'd just rest for a little while…

It was dark when the harsh sound of the phone ringing startled Mark out of sleep. A drowsy glance at the clock revealed that he'd slept for nearly eight hours. He stretched, waiting for the machine to catch the phone – he and Tom had never kicked the habit of screening… Then suddenly he remembered the call he was waiting for and launched himself at the phone.

"Hello?" he asked breathlessly. _Please don't let it be Maureen, please God, don't let it be bad news…_

"Mark?" Maureen's voice was tinny and strained, as if she was trying not to cry. Mark understood instantly.

"I'll be right there." He said without a second thought, and hung up the phone, racing out of the apartment with nothing but his keys and his scarf. He would make it in time, Tom would wake up for a moment and Mark could tell him how much he _loved_ him, and he'd get to say goodbye. He _had_ to say goodbye.

It took forever to get to the hospital, it seemed, even at a dead sprint (or as close as Mark could get to one), and by the time he reached the hospital doors he was out of breath and barely able to stand. But he couldn't stop. He panted and gasped for breath, willing his rubbery legs to carry him forward as quickly as possible. He headed for Tom's room… and stopped at the lounge area for Tom's floor. Maureen and Roger were there, sitting on the floor, Maureen's face buried in Roger's lap, her shoulders shaking, and tears streaming down Roger's cheeks. Benny sat nearby with a dazed look on his face and a suitcase at his feet – he'd come straight from the airport.

"No…" Mark whispered, rooted to the spot. It wasn't possible. It _couldn't_ be possible. Tom was strong, he always had been, he'd always beat whatever life threw at him… Roger looked up and saw him, his eyes full of pain and fear, and under different circumstances Mark would have recognized that Roger had been reminded, yet again, of his own mortality, and Mark would've tried to comfort him. But he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe, the only word on his lips was a whispered stream of "nononononono…"

Roger gently moved Maureen - who stayed on the floor hugging her knees, looking lost - and stood, walking to Mark with a bundle in his hands. Mark shook his head as Roger stopped in front of him. "_No_." he whimpered, as if pleading with Roger could change the outcome. Roger said nothing, just pushed the bundle into his hands. It felt intimately familiar, and Mark glanced down with a frown.

He held an old, well-worn, well-loved brown leather coat, bought one Christmas Eve from a street vendor on St. Mark's Place. Mark clutched it tightly, lifting it to his face, smelling the combination of smoke, aftershave, and deodorant that made up Tom's smell. Eventually, Mark realized, the smell would fade from this coat, and the only place that smell would ever be found would be in his memory. Something inside of Mark broke with that though, and his legs refused to support him anymore – though they did give him a chance to reach a chair.

Roger sat next to him and hugged him tightly as he buried his face in the soft leather and cried for the lover he'd lost. He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.


End file.
